


Collection of Collectors

by VicTheSpookyGoat



Category: Ghost in the Shell (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Episode Related, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Headcanon, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Other, Spoilers, Suspense
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2020-01-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:54:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22059646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VicTheSpookyGoat/pseuds/VicTheSpookyGoat
Summary: In their own ways, each member of Section 9 is a collector. Information, memories, sentimental trinkets, and things not so easy to define.Collection of short fics, mostly based on my dumb headcanons. Enjoy.
Comments: 8
Kudos: 25





	1. Friendly Neighborhood Ishikawa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What do counter-terrorist information specialists dream about? Find out in this week’s issue, true believer!

Ishikawa groaned as he lowered himself onto the shabby-looking couch in his apartment.  _ ‘I should’ve gone back to private consulting’ _ , he thought bitterly, his joints protesting loudly as he stretched out. It was the end of his third 18-hour day in a row, and this current case wasn’t anywhere closer to being solved. He reached for the pack of cigarettes and ashtray on the coffee table beside him.  _ ‘If I’m lucky, these’ll kill me before the job does…’ _

Letting his head fall back against the armrest, a freshly lit smoke in hand, he looked up at the wall of frames above him. Medals and commendations, earned during the 3rd and 4th World Wars; he was the only member of Section 9 to have served in both conflicts, though he only saw combat in the latter. A handful of photos, from his days in the service, and a couple from before that; one of a football team which included a fresh faced goalie with an unkempt shock of brown hair, and another of the same young man posing with two older men, holding an award and beaming. Next to those, a photo of an old man with a bushy white mustache and a twinkle in the eyes behind thick-rimmed glasses, signature scribbled below the words _"Excelsior!"_ Ishikawa tried not to think about the dates inscribed on the backs of those photos as he took another drag off his cigarette; he felt old enough as it was.

Leaving the cigarette dangling from his lips, he reached down into the long box beside the couch and drew out a thin, slightly faded and wrinkled comic book. A brightly colored masked hero stared out at him from the cover. He’d read this one plenty of times, but he didn’t feel like fishing around for a different one, so he flipped it open and settled in. His eyelids were getting heavy, no surprise after the hours he’d been pulling, and the garishly illustrated panels seemed to shimmer and dance as he struggled to keep his eyes open.

_ He is flying. No, swinging, from a thin, high tensile gossamer thread, zig-zagging high above city streets with ease. The tight fabric of his costume clings to his lean, rippling muscles, the full mask hiding his true identity. The city below is quiet from this height, the incessant noise of honking horns and shouting pedestrians muffled by the distance and the wind whipping between the skyscrapers around him. Too quiet. _

_ A sudden tingle in the back of his mind, followed by the sound of a woman’s scream. Swinging down toward street level, he soon finds their source: two nasty looking ruffians, looming over a beautiful woman cowering against the wall of an alleyway. “Come on baby, just give us a kiss. My friend thinks you’re real cute,” one of the men leers. _

_ “I don’t think the lady is in the mood for a kiss. Why don’t I give you one instead” _

_ The villains whip around, searching for the source of the quip, confusion on their faces, knives glinting in their hands. _

_ “Up here, dumbass.” He drops from the rooftop onto one of the men, knocking him out cold. His buddy lunges, but the hero dodges easily. “Aww, don’t be like that.” _

Biff. Bam. Pow.  _ The second hoodlum drops like a sack of potatoes.  _ Thwip.  _ Sticky gossamer threads bind the men’s hands and feet, then mouths, just for good measure.  _

_ “Geez, you kiss your mother with that mouth?” He turns his attention to the woman, who stares in wonder at her rescuer. “You ok, ma’am?” _

_ She flings her arms around his neck, clearly still hysterical. “Oh thank you! I don’t know what would have happened if you hadn’t come! What can I ever do to repay you?” _

_ “No need, ma’am. This was just another job for your friendly neighborhood-“ _

_ —Ishikawa— _

_ No, that’s not what he meant to say. _

_ —Ishikawa!—  _ Flashing red eyes and a steely scowl pop into his field of vision. Great. — _ Togusa and Azuma have a new lead on this hijacking case. I need you back at HQ a-sap.— _

_ —Be there in twenty—  _ Ishikawa sits up, brushing ashes out of his beard and silently thanking an unspecified deity that none of the hairs were singed. He really had to stop smoking.

_ —Make it fifteen. And Ishikawa...—  _ The Major paused, her digital image smirking now. — _ red spandex, really?— _

_ —You know most people consider would consider spying on a guy’s dreams pretty damn rude—  _ He pulls on his jacket and grabs his smokes, heading out the door.

_ —Consider it a reminder to put up a barrier the next time you decide to fall asleep while on call— _

_ —Yeah, yeah. Cut an old man some slack—  _ “Queen Kong…” he adds, aloud and definitely not over cybercomm.

_ —I heard that—  _

God damn it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't ask me how spying on a cyberbrain's dreams would work, I just saw an opportunity for a joke and took it.


	2. Kind of Blue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [In which an unexpected layover leads to an unexpected conversation and an even more unexpected discovery. Set after SAC 2nd Gig, Ep. 18 - TRANS PARENT]

The cyborg partners had said little on the flight out of Berlin, not that their quietude was anything unusual for the stoically introverted pair, but this time there was something heavy in the silence and they were both looking forward to the extended layover in Paris on their way back to Japan. The stopover couldn’t be avoided, Chief Aramaki had claimed; the surge of holiday travelers made booking direct flights impossible. Major Kusanagi suspected this was a ruse to force his top operatives to take some R&R it wasn’t like the notoriously resourceful head of Section 9 to let a little thing like overbooked flights get in his way. Either way, she was grateful for the chance to unwind for a few hours after a tense case and even tenser flight.

Her partner, Batou, was glowering out the window of the taxi as it shuttled them from the airport to the cheap hotel that Aramaki had booked for them for the overnight layover (the old man’s generosity did have its limits). He’d been uncharacteristically distracted the whole time they’d been in Berlin, partly by resentment over the long, frigid stakeouts they had been forced to undertake as part of the joint manhunt for the terrorist known as Angel’s Feathers, but also by something else. The Major hadn’t seen it until that last night, in the church, their suspect immobilized and bleeding on the floor. The little girl.

Batou had brusquely explained that the blind, wheelchair bound child was Angel’s Feather daughter, how he thought she’d seen him on stakeout and decided to trail her back to the nursing home. Following a whisper from his ghost, the Major had asked. Batou didn’t put stock in the idea of ghost whispers, but it was fortunate that he’d at least paid attention to this one. His side investigation had let him put the pieces together, brought them to the church, and their target. The appearance of the child had caught them both off guard, though, and her mistaken belief that the ex-Ranger was her father, disguised in a new prosthetic body, seemed to have affected him deeply. The Major, with equal parts irritation and fondness, chalked it up to his persistent sentimentality, but still she suspected there was something else to it. The look on his face as he’d manhandled their prisoner into the back of the waiting transport was the same one he’d worn for the week following the Zaitsev case.

Having her traveling companion sulk like some moody teenager wasn’t going to fly, though - especially not while they had a rare opportunity to spend almost 24 hours in a beautiful old city without having to worry about terrorists, or government conspiracies, or the rapidly deteriorating refugee crisis waiting for them back in Japan. Furthermore, things had become strained between them lately, and the Major just wanted to enjoy this vacation, however brief, not with a sullen subordinate, but with her friend. Operation Cheer Up Batou was now her top priority.

***

Later that night, after a shower and dinner at the hotel, Batou’s mood had improved, somewhat. He’d at least stopped scowling, but he still wasn’t talking beyond the few monosyllabic grunts he’d given her on the way to the smoky piano lounge she’d found near their hotel. She had figured that if booze and jazz couldn’t get him to lighten up, far more desperate measures would be necessary. First, though, she was going to have to get him to start talking.

_\--You look like somebody pissed in your Wheaties--_

He finally looked up from the whiskey neat that he’d been nursing for the past hour, one eyebrow cocked. “Pissed in my what?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. Just some American expression I heard somewhere. Means you look like shit.”

“Gee, thanks.” His scowl was back. _Damn it._

“Are you going to tell me what’s wrong, or are you just going to sulk until we get back to Japan?”

Batou sighed and took a long sip of his drink before responding, anger hardening the edges of his voice. “It’s just not fair, you know? Guys like Angelica and Zaitsev - they think they can have it all, criminal career _and_ a family. They take their wives and their kids for granted, without a second thought to the collateral damage they’re causing…” He paused, as if choosing his next words carefully. “Or how many guys would kill to have what they’re throwing away.”

It was then that heartbreaking truth at the heart of Batou’s current mood finally revealed itself to the Major.

“Batou?”

“Hmm?”

“Are you one of those guys?”

His expression tightened for a moment, but then relaxed into a wry smile. “Used to be. But let’s be honest, that pipedream died the day I enlisted.” He gestured to his round, inhuman eye implants, and then down to the full prosthesis that was his body. “Besides, it’s not like there’s a line of dames looking to shack up with this ugly mug.” 

“Dames?” She laughed, he shrugged, and they slipped back into silence, but a more comfortable one now.

“Hey Major?”

“Yeah?”

“You ever think about having kids?” There was that playfulness she’d been seeking.

She wrinkled her nose at the question as she responded. “Hell no. I’ll take terrorists over shitty diapers any day.” He gave her a grin and a deep belly laugh, and she knew that the worst had passed.

***

The next morning, with a few more hours to spare before they had to return to the airport and their duties, the pair found themselves wandering through a dingy antique store on a narrow side street. The shelves and cases were loaded with relics of a time long since past - yellowing photos and fragile bits of porcelain, silver watches and delicate bracelets, mink coats and leather boots. The Major was investigating a case of vintage pocket knives near the cash register when she heard an excited yelp behind her. She whipped her head around, hand reaching instinctively for the sidearm stashed under her coat, but stopping short when she saw the source of the noise.

Batou was hovering over a case several feet away, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet. The battle hardened cyborg looked like a child who had just found a shiny new toy. As she sidled up beside him, she was able to see what had caused such an uncharacteristically giddy response from her partner. Under the dusty glass of the case, propped on a dainty gold stand, was a vinyl record. Above the slightly faded image of an African American man, cheeks puffed as he blew into the mouthpiece of a trumpet, written in thin block letters, was a name. “Miles Davis.” Next to that, in smaller blue letters, was a title. “Some Kind of Blue.”

“Major?” Batou asked, breathlessly. “Do you know what this is?”

“A record?” She knew he collected vinyl records, especially of mid-20th century jazz musicians, but that was the extent of her knowledge on the subject. The name and the title were meaningless to her, but they had clearly struck a chord with Batou.

He turned his head to look at her, a reverent expression on his face as he whispered. “The Holy Grail.”

She shrugged, definitely out of her depth, but beckoned to the shop owner. The frail old man, who had been sizing up the pair of very unusual looking customers over a slightly crumpled newspaper, tottered over, leaning heavily on a wooden cane.

“Ah, I see you’re a man of some taste,” he noted, drawing a set of small brass keys from his pocket and unlocking the sliding door at the back of the case. He stashed the keys, and pulled a set of gloves from another pocket, which he slid on before gingerly moving the item from its stand to the countertop. Batou froze, as if afraid to even breath on the apparently precious item.

“How much?” The Major asked, flatly.

“Three thousand,” he responded, meeting her gaze in that level way that no one but Aramaki seemed able to manage. Noting her incredulous expression, he explained, unfazed. “It’s an original release. Mint condi-”

“I’ll take it!” Batou bellowed, causing the handful of other patrons to turn and stare. The shopkeeper’s eyebrows lifted slightly, but he just nodded and picked up the record, motioning for them to follow him to the register. Before Batou could fish his wallet from his heavy shearling-lined jacket, though, the Major’s credit card was already in the shopkeeper’s hand. 

The shopkeeper glanced up from the register at the face of the blonde giant who looked like he was about to argue, and then back at the stern purple-haired woman who was shutting down the argument with a steely sidelong glare. “How long have you two been married?”

The pair stared at him for a beat, the woman’s expression blank, the man’s mortified, before replying in unison, but in markedly different tones. “We’re not.”

Shrugging, the old man went about completing the transaction before carefully wrapping the record in tissue paper, and then a sturdy box at Batou’s request.

Outside, their eyes readjusting to the bright mid-day sun after the gloom of the shop, the Major and Batou made their way back down the narrow street toward their hotel, the latter cradling his acquisition like a newborn.

 _\--You really didn’t have to do that, you know.--_ His voice over their private cybercomm was gruff, but he couldn’t suppress his elated grin.

 _\--Think it of as an early Christmas present. Several years’ worth of Christmas presents, actually...--_ She cringed privately, thinking about what was, to her, a ridiculous price for such a small thing, but one look at the euphoric smile on her partner’s face told her it had been well worth every credit.


	3. Borma’s Revenge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Section 9 won’t know what hit them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short one, but it’s been stuck in my head for a few weeks. Poor Borma doesn’t get nearly enough love.

_ ‘Not long now,’ _ the demolitions expert thinks to himself, steady hands measuring out the final reagent. Not long until those sorry bastards got exactly what was coming to them. 

All his tireless efforts, unnoticed, unappreciated. They only took what they wanted, only what they thought they needed, ignored all the rest. They wouldn’t be able to ignore this.

Carefully, slowly, he folds the last piece into the rest. To rush would mean failure, a perfectly calculated plan gone to waste. Gently now, into the mold, then into the waiting convention unit to set. 

Thirty minutes, then thirty more to the Section 9 headquarters. The giant goes over his plan, silently, as he makes the drive. He knew exactly where he’d find them. Ishikawa in the dive room, Saito and Paz in the break room. He’d call them all to the briefing room. Just Borma, they’d think, nothing to worry about. What did they know? He is focused now, unyielding in his resolve. He steps out of the elevator, and sets the endgame into motion.

***

“Damn, Borma, these are really good,” Paz hasn’t finished chewing before he shoves another huge bite into his mouth.

“Yeah, you’ve really outdone yourself,” Ishikawa takes a second brownie from the plate, admiring it, before taking a massive bite of his own.

“Seriously, they’re so…” Saito glances around to make sure the Major isn’t listening. She hates the word about to come out of his mouth, just above a whisper. “Moist…” 

“What’s the secret?”

”Yeah, you definitely did something different this time. What’s in these?”

“Zucchini,” Borma responds, nonchalantly, trying to hide a smile.

The other three men stop chewing and their eyes dart to the brownies in their hands - Paz looking slightly disgusted, Saito suspicious, and Ishikawa curious - then back to their teammate, who just shrugs and gives them a little half-smile.

“I had to get you to eat your vegetables somehow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kind of silly, I know, but I have this headcanon (inspired by the end of Arise 4) that Borma likes to cook for the non-cyborg members of Section 9, but those jerks just won’t eat their veggies.


End file.
